Franny and Zooey

内容简介
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The author writes: Franny came out in The New Yorker</EM< Zooey. Both stories are early, critical entries in a narrative series I'm doing about a family of settlers in twentieth-century New York, the Glasses. It is a long-term project, patently an ambitious one, and there is a real-enough danger, I suppose, that sooner or later I'll bog down, perhaps disappear entirely, in my o...

The author writes: Franny came out in The New Yorker</EM< Zooey. Both stories are early, critical entries in a narrative series I'm doing about a family of settlers in twentieth-century New York, the Glasses. It is a long-term project, patently an ambitious one, and there is a real-enough danger, I suppose, that sooner or later I'll bog down, perhaps disappear entirely, in my own methods, locutions, and mannerisms. On the whole, though, I'm very hopeful. I love working on these Glass stories, I've been waiting for them most of my life, and I think I have fairly decent, monomaniacal plans to finish them with due care and all-available skill.

作者简介
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J.D.塞林格（Jerome David Salinger，1919年1月1日生）出生于纽约的一个犹太富商家庭，他在15岁时就被父亲送到宾夕法尼亚州的一所军事学校。1936年塞林格从军事学校毕业，1937年又被做火腿进口生意的父亲送到波兰学做火腿。塞林格在纽约的时候就开始向杂志投稿，其中大部分都是为了赚钱，但也不乏一些好文章，其中包括了《逮香蕉鱼的最佳日子》。

"I don't know what good it is to know so much and be smart as whips and all if it doesn't make you happy." Her back was toward Zooey as she moved again toward the door. "At least," she said, "you all used to be so sweet and loving to each other it was a joy to see." She opened the door, shaking her head. "Just a joy," she said firmly.

He said to shine them anyway. He said to shine them for the Fat Lady. I didn't know what the hell he was talking about, but he had a very Seymour look on his face, and so I did it. He never did tell me who the Fat Lady was, but I shined my shoes for the Fat Lady every time I ever went on the air againâ€”all the years you and I were on the program together, if you remember. I don't think I missed mo...

2011-10-26 12:00

He said to shine them anyway. He said to shine them for the Fat Lady. I didn't know what the hell he was talking about, but he had a very Seymour look on his face, and so I did it. He never did tell me who the Fat Lady was, but I shined my shoes for the Fat Lady every time I ever went on the air again—all the years you and I were on the program together, if you remember. I don't think I missed more than just a couple of times. This terribly clear, clear picture of the Fat Lady formed in my mind. I had her sitting on this porch all day, swatting flies, with her radio going full-blast from morning till night. I figured the heat was terrible, and she probably had cancer, and—I don't know. Anyway, it seemed goddam clear why Seymour wanted me to shine my shoes when I went on the air. It made sense.

“All I know is I’m losing my mind,” Franny said. “I’m just sick of ego, ego, ego. My own and everybody else’s. I’m sick of everybody that wants to get somewhere, do something distinguished and all, be somebody interesting. It’s disgusting – it is, it is. I don’t care what anybody says.”
Lane raised his eyebrows at that, and sat back, the better to make his point. “You sure you’re jus...

2015-11-25 12:24

“All I know is I’m losing my mind,” Franny said. “I’m just sick of ego, ego, ego. My own and everybody else’s. I’m sick of everybody that wants to get somewhere, do something distinguished and all, be somebody interesting. It’s disgusting – it is, it is. I don’t care what anybody says.”

Lane raised his eyebrows at that, and sat back, the better to make his point. “You sure you’re just not afraid of competing?” he asked with studied quietness. “I don’t know too much about it, but I’d lay odds a good psychoanalyst – I mean a really competent one – would probably take that statement – “

“I’m not afraid to compete. It’s just the opposite. Don’t you see that? I’m afraid I will compete – that’s what scares me. That’s why I quit the Theatre Department. Just because I’m so horribly conditioned to accept everybody else’s values, and just because I like applause and people to rave about me, doesn’t make it right. I’m ashamed of it. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of not having the courage to be an absolute nobody. I’m sick of myself and everybody else wants to make some kind of a splash.”

Lane, alone at the table, sat smoking and taking conservative drinks from his Martini to make it last till Franny got back. It was very clear that the sense of well-being he had felt, a half hour earlier, at being in the right place with the right, or right-looking, girl was now totally gone. He looked over at the sheared-rac-coon coat, which lay somewhat askew over the back of Frannyâ€™s vacant ch...

2015-11-25 12:08

Lane, alone at the table, sat smoking and taking conservative drinks from his Martini to make it last till Franny got back. It was very clear that the sense of well-being he had felt, a half hour earlier, at being in the right place with the right, or right-looking, girl was now totally gone. He looked over at the sheared-rac-coon coat, which lay somewhat askew over the back of Franny’s vacant chair – the same coat that had excited him at the station, by virtue of his singular familiarity with it – and he examined it now with all but unqualified disaffection. The wrinkles in the silk lining seemed, for some reason, to annoy him. He stopped looking at it and began to stare at the stem of his Martini glass, looking worried and vaguely, unfairly conspired against. One thing was sure. The weekend was certainly getting off to a goddam peculiar start. At that moment, though, he chanced to look up from the table and see someone he knew across the room – a classmate, with a date. Lane sat up a bit in his chair and adjusted his expression from that of all-round apprehension and discontent to that of a man whose date has merely gone to the John, leaving him, as dates do, with nothing to do in the meantime but smoke and look bored, preferably attractively bored.

There was nothing to do, though, when Lane extended his Martini glass to her but to accept the olive and consume it with apparent relish. She then took a cigarette from Laneâ€™s pack on the table, and he lit it for her and one for himself. After the interruption of the olive, a short silence came over the table. When Lane broke it, it was because he was not one to keep a punch line to himself for ...

2015-11-24 16:27

There was nothing to do, though, when Lane extended his Martini glass to her but to accept the olive and consume it with apparent relish. She then took a cigarette from Lane’s pack on the table, and he lit it for her and one for himself. After the interruption of the olive, a short silence came over the table. When Lane broke it, it was because he was not one to keep a punch line to himself for any length of time. "this guy Brughman thinks I ought to publish the goddam paper somewhere,” he said abruptly. “I don’t know, though.” Then, as though he had suddenly become exhausted – or, rather, depleted by the demands made on him by a world greedy for the fruit of his intellect – he began to message the side of his face with the flat of his hand, removing, with unconscious crassness, a bit of sleep from one eye. “I mean critical essays on Flaubert and those boys are a goddam dime a dozen.” He reflected, looking a trifle morose. “As a matter of fact, I don’t think there’ve been any really incisive jobs done on him in the last – ”

“You’re talking like a section man. But exactly.”

“I beg your pardon?” Lane said with measured quietness.

“You're talking exactly like a section man. I’m sorry, but you are. You really are.”

“I am? How does a section man talk, may I ask?”

Franny saw that he was irritated, and to what extent, but, for the moment, with equal parts of self-disapproval and malice, she felt like speaking her mind. “Well, I don’t know what they are around here, but where I come from, a section man’s a person that takes over a class when the professor isn’t here or is busy having a nervous breakdown or is at the dentist or something. He’s usually a graduate student or something. Anyway, if it’s a course in Russian Literature, say, he comes in, in his little button-down-collar shirt and striped tie, and starts knocking Tur-genev for about a half hour. Then, when he’s finished, when he’s completely ruined the Turgenev for you, he starts talking about Stendhal or somebody he wrote his thesis for his M.A. on. Where I go, the English Department has about then little section men running around ruining things for people, and they’re all so brilliant they can hardly open their mouths – pardon the contradiction. I mean if you get into an argument with them, all they do is get this terribly benign expression on their – “

“You’ve got a goddam bug today – you know that? What the hell’s the matter with you anyway?”

Everything everybody does is so--i don't know--not wrong, not even mean, or stupid necessarily. But just so tiny and meaningless, and--sadmaking. and the worst part is, if you go bohemian or something crazy like that, you are conforming just as much as everybody else, only in a different way.

2012-08-23 15:21

Everything everybody does is so--i don't know--not wrong, not even mean, or stupid necessarily. But just so tiny and meaningless, and--sadmaking. and the worst part is, if you go bohemian or something crazy like that, you are conforming just as much as everybody else, only in a different way.

There was nothing to do, though, when Lane extended his Martini glass to her but to accept the olive and consume it with apparent relish. She then took a cigarette from Laneâ€™s pack on the table, and he lit it for her and one for himself. After the interruption of the olive, a short silence came over the table. When Lane broke it, it was because he was not one to keep a punch line to himself for ...

2015-11-24 16:27

There was nothing to do, though, when Lane extended his Martini glass to her but to accept the olive and consume it with apparent relish. She then took a cigarette from Lane’s pack on the table, and he lit it for her and one for himself. After the interruption of the olive, a short silence came over the table. When Lane broke it, it was because he was not one to keep a punch line to himself for any length of time. "this guy Brughman thinks I ought to publish the goddam paper somewhere,” he said abruptly. “I don’t know, though.” Then, as though he had suddenly become exhausted – or, rather, depleted by the demands made on him by a world greedy for the fruit of his intellect – he began to message the side of his face with the flat of his hand, removing, with unconscious crassness, a bit of sleep from one eye. “I mean critical essays on Flaubert and those boys are a goddam dime a dozen.” He reflected, looking a trifle morose. “As a matter of fact, I don’t think there’ve been any really incisive jobs done on him in the last – ”

“You’re talking like a section man. But exactly.”

“I beg your pardon?” Lane said with measured quietness.

“You're talking exactly like a section man. I’m sorry, but you are. You really are.”

“I am? How does a section man talk, may I ask?”

Franny saw that he was irritated, and to what extent, but, for the moment, with equal parts of self-disapproval and malice, she felt like speaking her mind. “Well, I don’t know what they are around here, but where I come from, a section man’s a person that takes over a class when the professor isn’t here or is busy having a nervous breakdown or is at the dentist or something. He’s usually a graduate student or something. Anyway, if it’s a course in Russian Literature, say, he comes in, in his little button-down-collar shirt and striped tie, and starts knocking Tur-genev for about a half hour. Then, when he’s finished, when he’s completely ruined the Turgenev for you, he starts talking about Stendhal or somebody he wrote his thesis for his M.A. on. Where I go, the English Department has about then little section men running around ruining things for people, and they’re all so brilliant they can hardly open their mouths – pardon the contradiction. I mean if you get into an argument with them, all they do is get this terribly benign expression on their – “

“You’ve got a goddam bug today – you know that? What the hell’s the matter with you anyway?”

Lane, alone at the table, sat smoking and taking conservative drinks from his Martini to make it last till Franny got back. It was very clear that the sense of well-being he had felt, a half hour earlier, at being in the right place with the right, or right-looking, girl was now totally gone. He looked over at the sheared-rac-coon coat, which lay somewhat askew over the back of Frannyâ€™s vacant ch...

2015-11-25 12:08

Lane, alone at the table, sat smoking and taking conservative drinks from his Martini to make it last till Franny got back. It was very clear that the sense of well-being he had felt, a half hour earlier, at being in the right place with the right, or right-looking, girl was now totally gone. He looked over at the sheared-rac-coon coat, which lay somewhat askew over the back of Franny’s vacant chair – the same coat that had excited him at the station, by virtue of his singular familiarity with it – and he examined it now with all but unqualified disaffection. The wrinkles in the silk lining seemed, for some reason, to annoy him. He stopped looking at it and began to stare at the stem of his Martini glass, looking worried and vaguely, unfairly conspired against. One thing was sure. The weekend was certainly getting off to a goddam peculiar start. At that moment, though, he chanced to look up from the table and see someone he knew across the room – a classmate, with a date. Lane sat up a bit in his chair and adjusted his expression from that of all-round apprehension and discontent to that of a man whose date has merely gone to the John, leaving him, as dates do, with nothing to do in the meantime but smoke and look bored, preferably attractively bored.

“All I know is I’m losing my mind,” Franny said. “I’m just sick of ego, ego, ego. My own and everybody else’s. I’m sick of everybody that wants to get somewhere, do something distinguished and all, be somebody interesting. It’s disgusting – it is, it is. I don’t care what anybody says.”
Lane raised his eyebrows at that, and sat back, the better to make his point. “You sure you’re jus...

2015-11-25 12:24

“All I know is I’m losing my mind,” Franny said. “I’m just sick of ego, ego, ego. My own and everybody else’s. I’m sick of everybody that wants to get somewhere, do something distinguished and all, be somebody interesting. It’s disgusting – it is, it is. I don’t care what anybody says.”

Lane raised his eyebrows at that, and sat back, the better to make his point. “You sure you’re just not afraid of competing?” he asked with studied quietness. “I don’t know too much about it, but I’d lay odds a good psychoanalyst – I mean a really competent one – would probably take that statement – “

“I’m not afraid to compete. It’s just the opposite. Don’t you see that? I’m afraid I will compete – that’s what scares me. That’s why I quit the Theatre Department. Just because I’m so horribly conditioned to accept everybody else’s values, and just because I like applause and people to rave about me, doesn’t make it right. I’m ashamed of it. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of not having the courage to be an absolute nobody. I’m sick of myself and everybody else wants to make some kind of a splash.”

“All I know is I’m losing my mind,” Franny said. “I’m just sick of ego, ego, ego. My own and everybody else’s. I’m sick of everybody that wants to get somewhere, do something distinguished and all, be somebody interesting. It’s disgusting – it is, it is. I don’t care what anybody says.”
Lane raised his eyebrows at that, and sat back, the better to make his point. “You sure you’re jus...

2015-11-25 12:24

“All I know is I’m losing my mind,” Franny said. “I’m just sick of ego, ego, ego. My own and everybody else’s. I’m sick of everybody that wants to get somewhere, do something distinguished and all, be somebody interesting. It’s disgusting – it is, it is. I don’t care what anybody says.”

Lane raised his eyebrows at that, and sat back, the better to make his point. “You sure you’re just not afraid of competing?” he asked with studied quietness. “I don’t know too much about it, but I’d lay odds a good psychoanalyst – I mean a really competent one – would probably take that statement – “

“I’m not afraid to compete. It’s just the opposite. Don’t you see that? I’m afraid I will compete – that’s what scares me. That’s why I quit the Theatre Department. Just because I’m so horribly conditioned to accept everybody else’s values, and just because I like applause and people to rave about me, doesn’t make it right. I’m ashamed of it. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of not having the courage to be an absolute nobody. I’m sick of myself and everybody else wants to make some kind of a splash.”

Lane, alone at the table, sat smoking and taking conservative drinks from his Martini to make it last till Franny got back. It was very clear that the sense of well-being he had felt, a half hour earlier, at being in the right place with the right, or right-looking, girl was now totally gone. He looked over at the sheared-rac-coon coat, which lay somewhat askew over the back of Frannyâ€™s vacant ch...

2015-11-25 12:08

Lane, alone at the table, sat smoking and taking conservative drinks from his Martini to make it last till Franny got back. It was very clear that the sense of well-being he had felt, a half hour earlier, at being in the right place with the right, or right-looking, girl was now totally gone. He looked over at the sheared-rac-coon coat, which lay somewhat askew over the back of Franny’s vacant chair – the same coat that had excited him at the station, by virtue of his singular familiarity with it – and he examined it now with all but unqualified disaffection. The wrinkles in the silk lining seemed, for some reason, to annoy him. He stopped looking at it and began to stare at the stem of his Martini glass, looking worried and vaguely, unfairly conspired against. One thing was sure. The weekend was certainly getting off to a goddam peculiar start. At that moment, though, he chanced to look up from the table and see someone he knew across the room – a classmate, with a date. Lane sat up a bit in his chair and adjusted his expression from that of all-round apprehension and discontent to that of a man whose date has merely gone to the John, leaving him, as dates do, with nothing to do in the meantime but smoke and look bored, preferably attractively bored.

There was nothing to do, though, when Lane extended his Martini glass to her but to accept the olive and consume it with apparent relish. She then took a cigarette from Laneâ€™s pack on the table, and he lit it for her and one for himself. After the interruption of the olive, a short silence came over the table. When Lane broke it, it was because he was not one to keep a punch line to himself for ...

2015-11-24 16:27

There was nothing to do, though, when Lane extended his Martini glass to her but to accept the olive and consume it with apparent relish. She then took a cigarette from Lane’s pack on the table, and he lit it for her and one for himself. After the interruption of the olive, a short silence came over the table. When Lane broke it, it was because he was not one to keep a punch line to himself for any length of time. "this guy Brughman thinks I ought to publish the goddam paper somewhere,” he said abruptly. “I don’t know, though.” Then, as though he had suddenly become exhausted – or, rather, depleted by the demands made on him by a world greedy for the fruit of his intellect – he began to message the side of his face with the flat of his hand, removing, with unconscious crassness, a bit of sleep from one eye. “I mean critical essays on Flaubert and those boys are a goddam dime a dozen.” He reflected, looking a trifle morose. “As a matter of fact, I don’t think there’ve been any really incisive jobs done on him in the last – ”

“You’re talking like a section man. But exactly.”

“I beg your pardon?” Lane said with measured quietness.

“You're talking exactly like a section man. I’m sorry, but you are. You really are.”

“I am? How does a section man talk, may I ask?”

Franny saw that he was irritated, and to what extent, but, for the moment, with equal parts of self-disapproval and malice, she felt like speaking her mind. “Well, I don’t know what they are around here, but where I come from, a section man’s a person that takes over a class when the professor isn’t here or is busy having a nervous breakdown or is at the dentist or something. He’s usually a graduate student or something. Anyway, if it’s a course in Russian Literature, say, he comes in, in his little button-down-collar shirt and striped tie, and starts knocking Tur-genev for about a half hour. Then, when he’s finished, when he’s completely ruined the Turgenev for you, he starts talking about Stendhal or somebody he wrote his thesis for his M.A. on. Where I go, the English Department has about then little section men running around ruining things for people, and they’re all so brilliant they can hardly open their mouths – pardon the contradiction. I mean if you get into an argument with them, all they do is get this terribly benign expression on their – “

“You’ve got a goddam bug today – you know that? What the hell’s the matter with you anyway?”

I can't even sit down to lunch with a man any more and hold up my end of a decent conversation. I either get so bored or so goddam preachy that if the son of a bitch had any sense, he'd break his chair over my head.

2013-07-19 09:51

I can't even sit down to lunch with a man any more and hold up my end of a decent conversation. I either get so bored or so goddam preachy that if the son of a bitch had any sense, he'd break his chair over my head.